It's a Picasso kind of Friday.

Picasso's Le Rêve:

Anastasia Firmbottom's Le Rêve:

I chose a black matte frame because I'm classy like that.

As it turns out?  Not easy to paint like the Masters.  Who knew?

I have a Milk Stalker

Today started out like any other normal day.  I cursed the alarm clock as it brought me out of my hazy reverie and into another work day, I ate an unhealthy breakfast, and I made it to work almost on time.  I sat through an incredibly long meeting and tried to make sure I didn’t look as bored as I felt.  And then I got a text:

Unknown number: I just drank soooooo much milk.

Anastasia Firmbottom: Who is this and why was I not invited to the milk party?

Uknown number: Mmmmmmmmmmmm.  2%, 1%, whole or chocolate.  I loooooooove it. 

Now, upon occasion I have been known to invite friends for a good old fashioned milk party.  Nobody’s really taken me up on the offer, and it’s probably a good thing because besides drinking milk, I’m not sure of what more the party would consist.  I just know that from time to time, it’s nice to celebrate and indulge in things that are delicious.  Milk is on the list, alongside it’s great competitors for my affection, cheese and ice cream.  I can’t really say which of these is best, but let’s just say when God decides he’s had enough of my shenanigans, I’m sure he’ll punish me by inflicting lactose intolerance or something.  I think the etymology of the phrase “milk party” goes back to a stilted, awkward conversation I had with an old friend I hadn’t seen in a while.  I felt pressed for time and wit and during a lull in the conversation, told them we should get together some time soon and have ourselves a milk party.  I’m just saying, sometimes when the golden goose is under a lot of pressure, it doesn’t deliver golden eggs, it just poops.  That’s a metaphor, kids.  Learn it; live it. 

In any case, my friends and I embraced the phrase and idea, as we are wont to do with all things ridiculous, and occasionally would speak of having these parties.  So clearly when I received the aforementioned texts, my thoughts jumped to friends I’d invited previously.  This number didn’t match any of those friends.  And it continued:

UN: There is soooo much milk in my mouth as I’m texting this it’s spilling out of my mouth.

UN: A little bit just got on my sleeve.

UN: My favorite black activist is obviously MLK.

Clearly, I had a milk stalker on my hands.  Now, all my phone numbers were erased recently, so it was entirely possible that it was another friend that hadn’t updated their information with me.  But I couldn’t be sure.  Anastasia Firmbottom, PI, was on the case. 

AFPI: Have you only texted to bring me pain?  Clearly you know of my affinity for milk products.  Either that or you are a pervert.  Or a history buff.

UN: You know what would be awesome?  A Milkata.  It’s like a Piñata only full of milk. 

Side note: I hate piñatas.  I have a disdain for them that’s only shared by mayonnaise and those that have brought me chocolate syrup, claiming it’s hot fudge.  They are not the same thing, people.

Clearly, we were getting nowhere.  I advertised my stalked status on Facebook.  He noticed.

Milk Stalker: Not wise of you to advertise my activity on your facebook.  Just for that I’m going to buy $5 of Vons finest milk and throw it away unopened.

AFPI: You wouldn’t!  What about starving children?  What about the cows????

Number one, that’s just wasteful.  Throwing away food out of spite is like kicking hungry kids in the stomach: unneighborly.  Number two, if I was a cow and people were just throwing away my milk, I’d be pissed.  “Why am I working my nips off here so you can just throw it out?!  Oh, because I have an udder it must be easy.  No, no, you’re right; just keep squeezing.  Asshole.”  I’ll probably feel the same if I have kids and decide to breastfeed.  “Look, we have to talk about this spitting up business.  You’re making a mess, and you’re wasting the milk.  Just stop when you’re full; don’t be greedy.  I know other cultures find it complimentary to belch after a meal, but here in the good old U S of A, we just say, ‘thank you’.  Get with the program, kiddo.”

MS: My favorite basketball legend is Milk Chamberlain.  Obviously.

MS: I bring milk to the gym.  Not to drink it, obviously, just to have it.

AFPI: I’ve wallpapered my walls with the Got Milk ads.  Because I DO got milk.

Bad grammar aside, I’d made the tactical decision to dive in.  I don’t actually have any wallpaper on any walls, but this was not the time to split hairs.  I had to lure my milk stalker into more casual conversation, like they do on “To Catch a Predator”, except without all the false promises of a seemingly potentially sexually victimized youth.  (It probably goes without saying, but I do not associate with sex offenders.  They may have friends, Mini-Bottom and Sweet B and I never could decide, but they certainly don’t have friends in us.  Don’t bother.)

MS: I once drank milk as a chaser for a whiskey shot.

Let’s try bluntness.

AFPI: Are you going to tell me who you are?

MS: Generic fruit punch.

MS: Graham crackers.

AFPI: Grilled chicken salad.

AFPI: Bacon egg and cheese biscuit.

MS: These are all hints from me, to help you decipher my anonymity. 

AFPI: Oh, I thought we were sharing what we’ve eaten today.  Now I feel silly.

MS: I had a chicken salad sandwich for lunch today.  I’m appalled you haven’t guessed who I am yet.

AFPI: We are connected by milk and chicken.  These that bind us run deep. 

MS: White shirt, navy pants!

AFPI: Blue sweater, plaid pants!

AFPI:  Wait, you know who I am.  I’ll stop giving you clues. 

MS: Curly hair?

AFPI: Sometimes!

Damn!  I was still giving him clues about myself.  I’m not good at this.  The credibility of my detective skills were in serious question.  Here’s the thing: I don’t associate with people I don’t like, ergo whomever this was, he certainly was a friend.  Because he was a friend, I obviously cared about him, and as such didn’t want to offend him by guessing mistakenly.  Like what would happen if we were at a party, playing a game, and you said, “Name a genius!” and I shouted “Benjamin Franklin!” and it turns out Thomas Edison was in the next room?  He’d hear and get all butt-hurt I didn’t pick him, and I’d have to go into how I find him incredibly talented and I appreciate light, regardless of the whole Joseph Swan or Nikola Tesla controversies.  Then he’d sulk, and I’d feel like an asshole, and people at the party would pull on their collars and look around because they felt awkward.  The music would stop, the party would grow silent, and the crickets outside would valiantly perform Kabuki theatre to distract from the discomfort, but the damage would be done.  And that’s why you never guess a mystery texter’s name.

It turns out my Milk Stalker was an old friend I’ll call Lunch Box, not because he’s fat or shaped like a yellow plastic square with pictures of Transformers all over him, but because he always had cool lunch boxes in elementary school.  At least, that’s what he tells me.  He’s really proud of it, and clearly because it’s a funny thing to be excited about, I, too, am proud of it. 

The mystery was solved; the case was closed.  I put my feet on my desk, and leaning back, threw my hands behind my head.  Then I took my feet off the desk because I didn’t want to get the stink-eye if someone walked by.  They can be a bit uptight around here.  I think it's because they don't understand victory.  Regardless, the smug feeling of satisfaction swept over me.  I’ll be waiting for your call, Chris Hansen.

Just stop it already

I appreciate the diversity the world has to offer, and I realize it is our differences that makes the world an interesting, exciting place.  However, I also realize that part of my uniqueness as an individual is that I possess my own opinions about a variety of things, and I currently have a forum to share those with the world.  It is in that light, I bring to you: Just stop it already. 

Glee – I’ve never seen this show, but my disinterest is confirmed when I hear re-caps on the radio or in conversations between friends.  Nothing about this show sounds appealing to me.  In a re-cap this week I heard a clip wherein a cast member befouled a Beatles song and somebody had a grilled-cheese-God sandwich.  Just stop.

Shows about teen parents – Why in god’s name is this so fashionable lately?  Look, people, I’m not worried about those of you that watch these shows, lament the poor decisions that were evidently made, and move along in your responsible lives.  I’m worried about the dip shit youth that see that these young people are famous because of these piss-poor decisions and instead of learning from others’ mistakes, they glamorize those peoples’ lives and seek out to imitate them.  Question: How many teenage, unwed parents immediately benefit from their situation and lead happy, productive, fulfilling lives and would do absolutely everything the same if they had to do it all over again?  Answer: Not many.  If you’re one of those people that say you have no regrets and would do everything in your entire life the exact same way if you had a re-do, you’re likely either a Buddhist or a liar.

Instructions on voicemail – Does anyone in the entire world where cell phones are common not know how to leave a message these days?  I think not.  Just leave a message after the gawddamn beep.  If you need to be told that every time, perhaps you shouldn’t operate a phone.  Even my grandparents, who still fear if they use the internet at home their stocks and bank accounts will surely be hacked and stolen, know how to leave a message without instruction.  Just. Stop.

Texting entire conversations – For some reason, the mentality appears to be, why have a 3 minute simple conversation when instead I could have a 45 minute ambiguous text conversation, and still have unanswered questions later?  It’s just inefficient.    The amount of time it takes to think of something, type it out, and send it in no way can compete with the amount of time it takes to have a give and take live, audible conversation.  You are wasting my time.  You are wasting your time.  Both of us could be doing something far more productive, like writing a novel or jogging or researching lower intestinal disorders or something.  Stop (text, send).  It (text, send).  Already (text, send).

Real Housewives – Another show I have no desire to watch, because why in the world would I care about some older, rich, self-involved bitchy women?  If I want to watch a show about assholes, I’ll turn on Seinfeld or It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.  At least then I can rest in comfort knowing that their sometimes deplorable attitudes and acts are fictional, and I can pretend that most people are nice and compassionate.  I can laugh because I think, “Why, that’s absurd!  Nobody does that!”.  When it’s thrust in my face and presented as reality, I no longer have that option.  And it makes me sad.  A lot of reality television is like that.  Just stop.

Women having millions of kids – Your uterus asked me to please ask you to give it a rest.  Having shit loads of kids back in the day made sense- miscarriages, disease and famine were commonplace.  Having multiple kids was probably much like planting a garden- you throw a bunch of seeds out and hope a few grow to maturity.  If you had 12 babies, you were crossing your fingers that at least 7 would make it into adulthood.  These days we have better odds.  I have to ask, what are we trying to accomplish by having this many kids?  Yes, you love them all.  Yes, God said to go forth and multiply.  That’s all very admirable and special.  I just don’t want you to feel like you have to pick up the slack for others, because just so you’re aware, the population is going strong.  It’s not so much looking like the human race is going to die out anytime soon.  It’s okay to stop.

It's one of *those* days.

I don't actually get paid to eat cheese...yet

Boss: Hey there! 

AF: Hello.

Boss: Are you still sick?  You look sickly.  Wait, unless you’re feeling better.  In which case, pretend I didn’t say that.  You look great!

And so begins another week at work.  Here are some occupations I’d rather have or jobs I’d rather do:

Be professionally good looking but only when I want because I do it for me, despite the paycheck

Cheese and Ice Cream taste tester that never gets fat

Massage therapist and Aesthetician for the sexy

Professional stylist and make-up artist for a good friend that got famous

Creative director for concept photo shoots

Travel author and host of television’s “This place is the shit: Your Guide to Traveling the World”

Peace negotiator for the world

Psychologist and professional psychiatric observer that writes the best-seller: “You crazy!”

Popular advice columnist- “I know everything so feel free to ask”

In fact, I see no reason why I shouldn’t do all of those things.  Sometimes it’s a real bummer that there are only 24 hours in a day.  I wish I could rewind about eight years, keep everything I know now, and get cracking on getting the twenty or so degrees and certificates I’d need to do the work I want to do.  I still haven’t figured out that time machine thing, though, and in any case, if Back to the Future I-III have taught me anything, it’s that changing the past is very tricky business, and Michael J. Fox is sexy, and runs a lot in his movies.  He’s like a non-Scientologist Tom Cruise, minus the cleans-up-nice-but-still-can’t-act wife.  Wait, I actually don’t know much about Michael J. Fox’s wife, so perhaps that last part isn’t true.  But I do know she’s a lucky lady.  Oh, MJF, you had my heart at Family Ties.  *sigh…

Anyway, I’m not sure why this deteriorated into a post about how awesome Alex Keaton is, but the point of the matter is that, yes, I *am* still sick.  Luckily, my awesomeness remains in tact. 

Nick and Rudolf: Not just Christmas Porn

...or: He's One in a Million!

Contrary to popular belief the world is neither flat nor round; it's elliptical.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, my friend, Nick.  He is a traveling Welshman who, in the fall of 2008, embarked from his fair city on an “around the world” tour.  He rides a trusty motorcycle named Rudolf and made it all the way down to Cape Town, South Africa.  From there, he hopped-skipped-and-jumped on over to South Korea, where he taught English to children for about a year.  Now, he’s landed on American soil and is embarking on part two of his world tour.  He will pass through California on his way towards South America.  He is fully bad-ass.

Nick is one of my heroes, because he is actually doing something I’ve dreamed about since I was at least 16 years old.  My plan isn’t to go solo on a motorcycle around the world, but him saying, “By god the world is too big to just sit here all day!” and setting out to see all of it is immeasurably inspiring.  My vocabulary is far too limited to appropriately convey how cool I think Nick is.  I envy his courage, I respect his fortitude, and I hope that all his experiences are positive and gain him wisdom and insight beyond his wildest dreams.  I hope someday he and I can swap stories about African sunsets, and French vineyards and Incan ruins.  Until I’ve completed my plans for world domination, though, I’ll look to him for adventure. 

If you’d like to follow Nick on his tour, you can visit his website, called Tales from the Saddle.  He has cool stories and plenty of photos. 

Nick, may the wind always be at your back, and may drug wars never impede your travels!  Good luck and God speed! 

Sheep.

Giving a cheese basket is always a neighborly gesture.

I drew this for my friend, Panda, who was kind enough to make my day by sharing this quote with me.  It made me laugh and if it doesn't make you laugh, you should really question how seriously you're taking sheep these days.


UPDATE: My friend Panda liked the drawing, but said the stick-figure was creepy.  Then she said, "I'm not saying I wouldn't eat her cheese, but I still wouldn't want to be her friend."  It's the quote of the day.

My wolf pack

I’m blessed to have an amazing family and many good friends.  Several people fall into my “best friends” category, but some are old, some are new, some are borrowed, and some are blue. 

I’ll perform a roll call of sorts over time to acquaint you with and pay tribute to the special people in my life.  Today, I’d like to familiarize you with Mini-Bottom and Sweet B.  Put together, we are the three best friends that anyone could have.

Mini-Bottom: aka Sis, Sister, The Lit’lest Bottom

Hobbies: Watching copious amounts of television and movies, Baking, Doing a really great job at holidays of remembering to buy gifts and decorate really cute-like and making everyone else feel like an asshole because I forgot it was Valentine’s Day again, Playing and watching soccer, Reading books about serial killers, Smacking an ass really freaking hard

Known for: Being a really loyal, stable, awesome friend, Taking highly unflattering pictures of loved ones,  Committing to plans like a champ, “Cleaning” her room and by “cleaning” I mean doing “deep cleans” and by “deep cleans” I mean having the entire contents of her and possibly three other unknown peoples’ rooms spread out on her floor and bed, Not appreciating when other people touch her, Not taking your bullshit so quit wasting her time

Sweet B: aka SB, Second Sister

Hobbies: Making and accepting mix tapes, Playing and watching soccer, Reading romantic novels and in general being in love with Mr. Darcy, Making great “feel-better” cards with puffy paint, Giving questionable medical advice

Known for: Inadvertently accepting relationship requests, Possessing surreal amounts of energy and essentially just being a cartoon character that’s come to life, Never finishing a meal or taking home leftovers, Mistakenly believing that people possess far fewer teeth than they actually do, Possessing an imaginary life unrivaled by any other sane person I know

Here’s to you, Mini-Bottom and Sweet B!  You’re better friends than people deserve to have. 

In which I use science to graphically explain my motivation to exercise

Because I’m practically a math and science genius, I put together a super technical graph denoting my levels of motivation in response to different stimuli.*  You may be able to click on it to better read it, but I'm not totally sure because my math and science genius doesn't always extend to the computer-world. 

The lure of a Diet Coke and maybe some cheese distracted me and as such I forgot to put “desire to lead a more healthful existence” in the graph.  It would fall roughly between the “desire to fit into new, nicer clothing” and the “desire to play soccer again” bars. 

*I should probably ashamed of the last bar, and I guess I am a little bit, but life’s not always rainbows and butterflies and kitten-kisses and butterscotch shots.  Anastasia Firmbottom is the real-deal-Holyfield, minus the Holyfield part.  Regardless of how I feel about people, though, I do appreciate and encourage everyone to lead a healthy life.  ***the more you know!!!*** whoosh!  (shooting star)

I'm hot, and not just because of this firm bottom.

It’s probably about 110 degrees outside right now, which is okay because inside it’s only about 95 degrees.  My workplace’s air conditioning system is on the fritz and while yesterday I misguidedly attempted to beat the heat inside by braving the heat outside, today I am stuck in here.  I am uncomfortable.  I am wearing as little clothing as I can get away with without violating both the rules outlined in my company handbook and the rules of good taste.  Yet, my hands and arms sweat whenever they come into contact with my desk or computer apparatus.  My arms slip off the table even as I write this.  I shan’t lie- it’s a little gross.  I mean, I’m clean, and I smell faintly of delicate and inviting flora and fauna and baby powder, but really, this has degenerated into what I don’t with a light heart refer to as “yuck”.  It’s hard to focus on the tasks at hand, and when I say “hard to focus” I mean, “more difficult to focus than usual” and when I say “tasks at hand” I mean “work”.  I’m pretty sure if I put my mind to it, I could do the following things:

-Fantasize about the future, when Boyfriend and I will get married and have perfect kids that bring us immeasurable joy

-Work on perfecting my Cleveland from Family Guy’s voice

-Eat some cheese

-Read celebrity gossip and mentally judge all of them

-Feel a little bit guilty about wasting my life following celebrity gossip and being judgmental

-Think about where I’m going to go for lunch

I’m pretty sure that’s all I’m capable of right now.  I really just hope they let us go home early.  Then, I can do all of the things on the list, and be comfortable while doing them.

The day David Beckham and I became BFFs

Besides the obvious (winning a billion dollars, having my head transplanted onto Adriana Lima’s body…wait, maybe I’ll take her face, too…, being voted Super Smartest Girl in all the Land, curing all the diseases humans battle*, or single-handedly bringing about world peace), these are some things that could happen today that would make this day way better:

-The quiet, serious upper-management fellow that’s been hanging out at my work lately could spontaneously burst into song and dance.  He could skip around the office, wrangling people from their seats while he danced his heart out, a la Christopher Walken in that Fat Boy Slim video.  I would lie down on the floor and just bask in the awesomeness of it all.  Afterwards, he’d look around confused, because as it turns out he’d blacked out prior to his outburst and had never danced before.  We’d all look at one another with that, “What the hell?” wide-eyed look and return to our desks, never to speak of it again.  But every once in a while, when a song from a passing car blared a little loudly, we’d look at one another, and just nod our heads as if to say, “We all know what happened here.  And it was good.”

-I could go to lunch and after I placed my order, there would be sirens and balloons and they’d yell “You’re our 89 millionth customer and we’re giving you and your family free food for life!” and then David Beckham would come out in shirtless glory and hand me my free-food-for-life card and kiss my cheek and we’d take a picture for the paper.  Then he’d ask to join me for lunch, and I’d say, “Sure I have a table over there,” and he’d say, “Yeah, that’s cool, or we can get this to-go and fly around for the next hour in my private jet”, and I’d say, “That’s cool, too.  They both sound fun; you pick.”  Then he’d say, “Let’s do the private jet one, because the bathrooms are cleaner and plus, I have to return this DVD or I’ll get a late fee,” and I’d be all “Sounds good, Becks.”  Then we’d fly around for an hour or so before he dropped me back off at work.  Afterwards, we’d “Friend” each other on Facebook and he’d comment on the picture I posted of me and him after I won the prize, and he’d comment, “OMG, why didn’t you tell me I had toilet paper on my shoe??” and I’d reply, “I didn’t notice the toilet paper because I was too busy noticing that you’re David Beckham. haha!”  Then we’d be BFFs and every year he’d send me a cheese basket for Christmas. 

Soccer balls and flash cameras are hard to draw.

-My boss would invite me out for Happy Hour after work, and by “after work” I mean three hours before my shift was over, so essentially I’d be paid to party.  Then, as we were walking into the bar, a bunch of people would shout, “SURPRISE!” and they’d give me a Medal of Honor for Awesomeness and appoint me Champion Queen of Everything.  I’d ask how they had the authority to appoint people to these positions, but they’d knowingly shush me and remind me that the first step in being able to love another person is being able to accept love.  I wouldn’t know what in the world they meant by that, so I’d just squint my eyes like I understood, and say that my first order of business was a round of drinks for everyone!  Then I’d tell everyone, “Alright people, let’s get down to brass tacks”, because I’ve never used that expression before, and the time feels as good as any to start throwing around old, smart-sounding sayings.  Then, everyone would hoist me up on their shoulders and march around the bar, all while chanting, “All hail Queen Firmbottom!” and I would think to myself, “I hope nobody drops me because these people all look a little bit uncoordinated” and also, “Wait, did I ask Mini-Bottom to record ANTM this week?  Because if not I’m going to be lost next week.” 

*Wait, perhaps that's not such a great idea, since it won't allow natural selection to work and then we'll overpopulate and kill the planet ahead of time and God would be pissed.  Not like "No, you can't have the last cookie" pissed, but like "Oh, I'm so not talking to you for like a month" pissed.  Maybe I'll just cure all the super bad diseases. 

Mama Firmbottom: Dramarama (and not the good kind)*

I hate drama.  Sometimes in life, it’s unavoidable.  Sometimes, drama stalks me and gets all creepy until I tell it, “Look D., I want you to stop cutting my hair at night and telling my Denny’s waiters that we’re an item.  People are asking me about you, and seriously, enough is enough.  Plus, I see the hair-shirt you’re making, and trust me, nobody thinks it’s avant garde; it’s weird.”  Then, I put drama on a timeout, and return to my normal, awesome life.

Life is too short for unnecessary beefs with people, and to get upset about misunderstandings, or to steam about other people or their actions, and not seek clarification. 

How to avoid unnecessary drama:

Step 1 – Be considerate.  This should be common sense, but whatever.  Think before you speak, and before making a decision, look outside of yourself and consider how it may affect others.  You don’t have to go all WWJD** on people, just take a second to think about someone that’s not yourself. 

Step 2 – Communicate.  If you think someone insulted you, if you were offended by something, entertain the notion that perhaps there was a misunderstanding, and then seek to clarify it.  Don’t be passive aggressive.  Don’t sulk, pout, or send vague or sarcastic emails or texts.  Don’t put “Some people are ASSHOLES” as your Facebook quote.  Don’t respond “nothing” if people ask you what’s wrong.  Just talk to the person with whom you have a problem.  Why beat around the bush or keep things awkward and tense? 

Step 3 – Understand your own feelings before you project them onto someone else, or get upset for no reason.  Ask yourself why something bothered you.  Also, understand your motivations for confronting someone else.  Ask yourself, “What am I trying to accomplish?”  This is not to encourage a defeatist attitude, but simply to fully understand what kind of end result you hope to see. 

Step 4 – If you can, and if it would not serve to encourage unacceptable behavior, don’t take it personal.  Unless you’re sure that something was done maliciously, perhaps it’s easier for all involved if you just take the high road.  If your co-worker is being a bitch one day, (unless this is a repeat issue), just accept the fact that they have their psycho days, and maybe they have something going on at home, and they’ll probably get over it and realize they were being unreasonable.  Then move the fuck on.  Everyone has their douche days.*** 

Step 5 – Listen.  If someone puts their cards on the table, treat their feelings with respect.  Then either explain what you meant to do or say or how their perception of the event differed from your own.  I’m not encouraging people to get walked on, or to be aggressive and confrontational.  I’m encouraging open communication for the purpose of re-establishing the status quo, as it were. 

These steps all kind of dovetail from one another, but I think they’re relevant.  Also, remember that “the shortest distance between two points is a straight line”, which, though I’m not great with expressions or analogies, I think means that the simplest explanation is the likeliest.  Or maybe it means that math isn’t really bringing the hard-hitting life clichés or it means something vaguely sexual, in a way that I can’t begin to understand would ever be helpful.  So just put your conspiracy theories and your “everyone is out to get me” shoulder chip to the side until you’ve got proof. 

Sometimes people get so caught up in what’s going in their lives that they can’t see the bigger picture.  When you lose perspective, you can lose levity.  Life is so incredibly short- why waste it being unhappy, if you can avoid it?  You can’t predict or control what life throws at you, but you can certainly control how you react to it.  Emotions can be overwhelming, but that’s where the people you care about come in, and it’s better for them to be there for you than to be absent because you have some ridiculous ongoing drama.

I once heard a Chinese proverb, “The fire of anger only burns the angry.”  I took it to heart because the Chinese nailed wontons, almond cookies, cool dragon costumes, and finger traps; I think their record speaks for itself.  Also, I’m not big on temperature extremities and burning doesn’t sound pleasant.  So, I’m going to do my part to stop being so dramatic.  I would appreciate it if you would do yours, World.  Thank you. 

*Click here for the good kind, not *A* good time, perv

**What Would Jem Do?  She’d rock, that’s what she’d do.  I loved her.

***I didn’t mean this in a literal sense, but does anyone else feel like this could be a Summer’s Eve commercial tagline?  Maybe my calling was in marketing and advertising.

My life is like one big invitation for the rest of the world to be jealous

In the past few days, I:

Walked a 5K “Heart Walk” in honor of a loved one.  I’m not trying to brag, but I jogged for a good minute or two during the whole thing.  There was some 90 year old woman that kept trying to breeze past me and the mothers with their strollers, but I wasn’t about to let her or the blind people walking ahead of me, win.  So I told my sister that while I respected this lady’s obvious commitment to be up in the gym working on her fitness, I wouldn’t even let Betty White school me like that.  Anyone that knows me knows that statement was a reflection of the seriousness of the matter at hand.  I love me some Golden Girls.  So I, motivated by my cousin’s “Rocky” instrumental rendition, gave a solid half-sprint ahead of that lot and finished in a very fairly respectable amount of time. 



This is what it might have looked like if I ran instead of walked.

 My sis and I ran some errands, and in the car-ride between errands, did some fist-pumping to be reckoned with.  We didn’t do this as an ode to the “Jersey Shore” people, because I’ve never seen that show, but my gut tells me they’re ass-monkeys anyway, so no big loss.  We did this because we wanted to entertain the people around us, at the stop lights.  It was fun.  We enthusiastically fist-pumped until we could pump no more, and broke out into fits of laughter.  The best part was seeing the people staring and/or laughing at us.  I don’t really mind people laughing at me, as long as it’s not when I’m competing in a spelling bee or wearing a bathing suit or reciting my wedding vows or giving my alibi for last Thursday night.  I was at home, eating cheese.

Mini-Bottom and I also went to a hip-hop show, after my mom’s pleadings to remain safe and be cautious.  My mom often forgets that a) I’m a very adaptive person, 2) everyone likes me* and Grey) I am a survivor.  Don’t let the winter-coat physique fool you- if shit goes down, this Firmbottom is out.  I will not get caught in a ruckus.  I have a lot of living left to do, and it’s not just so I can grace the world with awesome alliterations.  I have plans.  As such, I keep my nose clean.**  In any case, we had a fantastic time, though we left early because as awesome as he is, we’d already seen Ice Cube, previously.  Fun fact: when we told her about the concert, my Granny said, “Yes, I’ve heard of Ice Box.”  Honestly, I defy anyone to not love old people. 


Imagine a lot more smoke in the air, and you're getting closer.

I got a pedicure.  I went to the cheap place with the really nice Vietnamese women that always say, “Than yoo, Lay-dee!” when I leave.  I usually prefer my nails to be painted one solid color, usually red, because I’m sexy like that.  But it always pains me to request this, because these women always offer to paint designs for free.  It’s not simply a matter of saying, “no”, mind you.  I’m pretty sure based on their huge eyes and quivering lips that painting designs is the highlight of their nail-painting days.  I’ve said no several times and each time I felt like I had just kicked their puppy in the face or told them that professional wrestling was fake.  I always feel bad, so this time I just acquiesced and let them design something for my big toes, or as I like to call them, the HMFTIC.***  Well,  they were given an inch yet took a mile and a half.  So now I’m walking around with a representative visual equivalent of the 4^th of July, Love, Freedom, and Happiness and Buddha on my toes.****  Another fun fact: the woman painting my toes had the same name as me.  Who’d have thought that there’s a Vietnamese Anastasia Firmbottom?  Weird!

*Unless they’re an asshole, n’est-ce pas?

**Not a cocaine or shit reference, though I guess that may be how that expression started?  I just mean I stay out of trouble.  Wait, now it sounds like I endorse doing cocaine and sniffing shit.  I condone neither of those things. 

***Head Mother F***ing Toes In Charge. 

****I may be exaggerating that part a little bit.  And is “representative visual equivalent” redundant?  I’m so distracted by my toes I can’t even be pressed to find out.

This is more than a crush*

I once was a cherry-cheeked young lass, with an innocent heart and a joker smile, and an unfortunate lack of fashion and body-awareness.  I was what is commonly known as a “late bloomer”, but that didn’t stop me from having crushes, like every other high-school girl.  I’d like to take a moment to reflect on and pay tribute to the great crushes of the late nineties. 

San Francisco- Ah, my first big crush.  This boy was dreamy- dark blonde hair, blue eyes, a winning smile.  He played soccer, and was a year ahead of me.  I’m pretty sure he wasn’t an asshole, because he seemed nice and all the pretty and popular girls befriended if not dated him.  I went to a small school so I’m certain had he been a raging doucher I would have heard.  The highlight of my day was seeing him near the gym each day during the break between second and third period.  I’m pretty sure if he had tried to talk to me I would have stammered, blushed, and acted either rude or disinterested.  Contrary to all logic, that approach doesn’t seem to work well, but I eventually learned that. 

Yellow 5- All the girls in my group liked this one, even though he was younger than us.  I, still being painfully shy and awkward, was still operating under the “please don’t pay attention to me” strategy and in a move I would forever regret, turned Yellow 5 down for a requested dance during our “Welcome Back” dance.  Anyway, Story and I knew part of his class schedule and would come up with elaborate plans (complete with maps and timetables) on how to pass him as many times in the day as possible.  My mom called this “stalking” but it’s not like we ever followed him home or stole his sweatshirt or collected his hair or anything.  Even at that time I knew that was creepy and would require way too much effort.  So, it was comparatively healthy.  Besides, I actually talked with him a few times throughout the years, over the pounding of my anxious heart,  and much to the surprise and delight of my girls.  Nothing ever came of our interaction, but still…WIN. 

Mormon Beckham – I played soccer with him and his sister for years.  Not once did he ever have one iota of interest in me, but there was not a lot I wouldn’t have done to change that.  I fawned over his scars endlessly, I asked about his religion and his hobbies.  I complimented him and if given the choice, always picked him to be on my team if we’d scrimmage.  He was always acted nice and polite, as Mormons are wont to do, but now that I reflect, he didn’t really have much of a personality.  It may be that our two religions put us in two different worlds, nary to cross.  Or it’s possible that he just found me annoying and figured it was his god-given cross to suffer fools.  I’m sure that today he’s a very good husband, and a great father to his 11-20 children. 

The Gay One, The Be-freckled One, and N-Dude – All attended my school for a year or less, and all were my friends.  The gay one had a different name that fails me right now, but he never held any interest in me, much to my confusion, because we spent a lot of time together and got along very well.  He never “came out” while he was at my school, but had he, it may have explained a lot.  In retrospect, that revelation wasn’t really shocking like the ending of The 6^th Sense was or the fact that people pay Sarah Palin to do…anything.  All the signs were there, I just couldn’t see them.  The Be-freckled one played soccer and every day we’d drive to practice in his car, which was by far the most ghetto yet awesomely sound-equipped car I’d ever been.  I liked him but my enamor wore off when he started dating a girl that embarked on a mission to make me her new best friend.  She was nice enough, but I wasn’t into it.  Also, when that affair of the heart ended, Breath announced she was moving in, and I wasn’t going to stand in the way of true love or the possibility of actually landing a prom date.  N-Dude was different.  He didn’t look anything like the light-eyed, tan-skinned, mostly-athletic boys I’d previously liked.  He was quiet, intelligent but uninterested in school, and had a very caustic wit.  I guess he was kind of pre-Emo, sans the floating-sexual-orientation and open-invitation to make fun of him.  We remain friends to this day, and years after the fact, I found out he liked me “like that” during high school.  Of course, he and I were both extremely awkward, and instead of just telling me he liked me, his plan was to date my friends.  Contrary to all logic, that approach doesn’t work too well either, but he eventually learned that.

The Rebel- When I was finally old enough, I got a McJob.  It was the first time in my life boys seemed to notice me, and this led to some very entertaining moments and people in my life.  I met The Rebel in the drive-through.  He and I are still friends, and my parents still ask about him fondly, however, at the time they were not appreciative of the seven year age gap betwixt the two of us.  In his defense, he never tried anything lurid or inappropriate with me.  But there was no way I could resist his charm and rebelliousness.  He drove a lifted truck and had piercings.  He raced motorcycles and listened to rap but didn’t smoke weed or do drugs.  He was dangerous, but not so dangerous my tender bunny-heart would be afraid to associate with him.  I’ll never forget his sexy line before our one and only kiss: “Now, kiss me like I’m not your grandmother.”  Now that’s amore. 

The Heartbreaker – This was one of the smoothest talking people I’ve ever met in my life.  I didn’t think I had any chance with him because he was so popular and cute.  This means that I was…free.  I was free to be my exact self and make my silly and sarcastic jokes and just relax and never worry about what he thought.  So when he took an interest in me, it was one of the most thrilling feelings I’d ever experienced.  How could someone so cool want me?  I wasn’t as pretty or flirty as the other girls he’d dated.  I wasn’t as stupid or slutty as they were either, but that’s neither here nor there.  I had never experienced such intense feelings for someone.  I felt butterflies in my stomach when he held my hand; I thought I was in love.  Unfortunately his ability to make a girl feel like a million bucks was not only exercised on me, and when reality cold-cocked me, it hurt.  Though I felt it was entirely possible for him to be “the one”, I was one of several naïve girls he charmed.  It was from him I learned that the rest of the world wasn’t always as honest as I was, and I needed to be more discerning about who I trusted.  Umm…so thanks for that, I guess. 

This completes my late-nineties heavy-hitter-crushes role call.  From many of you I learned good lessons, but all of you entertained me to varying degrees.  All of you and those who flittered through my life helped make me the Anastasia Firmbottom known and loved today.  Thank you all, crushes from my days of yore. 




*It totally wasn't more than a crush, but I really like that song, so I went with it.